Wanted: One Wife
by MagicSwede1965
Summary: Part 1 of 2: A man with a secret sets his sights on Leslie. Follows 'The Black Phantom'.
1. Chapter 1

This is the first of a two-part story. The two island kingdoms I mention herein, Arcolos and Lilla Jordsö, are figments of my imagination; I created the former about 14 years ago for another writing project of mine. The latter is brand-new for this story. And as always, Mr. Roarkeand Tattoo arethe creations of Aaron Spelling, Leonard Goldberg and Gene Levitt, while all other characters are my own invention.

* * *

§ § § -- August 3, 1991

It was still early in the morning; Leslie had yet to come down from her room, but Roarke was already on the veranda despite the hour. The letter he was perusing had come more than a month before, and its sender was scheduled to arrive on the island that very day; but Roarke still didn't like the request that had been added as an urgent postscript at the bottom. Normally he had no problem with keeping secrets; but he had never before been asked to hold something back from his own assistant. He had always told Tattoo whatever he felt the latter needed to know, and had done the same with Lawrence, all the assistants thereafter, and Leslie in her current tenure. Even if he didn't always reveal the full truth, he never completely hid anything.

_Leslie should know,_ he thought, shaking his head slowly. _It's only right that she know; but I can't violate a guest's request for privacy._ He really didn't know why he had such a persistent feeling that something was going to go wrong somehow; but the feeling was there nonetheless, and he had learned countless years ago to heed that sense. The request left him in an extremely uncomfortable position. _Perhaps,_ he finally conceded to himself, _it's wiser that I err on the side of caution. I won't tell her immediately, but if the opportunity presents itself, I'll try to obtain his permission to do so._ It was the best solution he could find to a bad situation, and he had to be satisfied with that.

"Mr. Roarke, is everything all right?" asked a voice, and he looked up to find Mariki standing near the table bearing a covered silver tray. He nodded, folding the letter and slip-ping it into an inner pocket of his jacket.

"Just fine, Mariki," he assured her. "What's on the menu this morning?"

A little less than two hours later, Leslie met her adoptive father on the veranda, and as always they greeted each other before going to the car that pulled up to take them to the plane dock. Roarke introduced their first fantasy: the young-adult daughter of two very well-known rock stars, who had been famous from the moment of her birth and now wanted to know what it was like to be a complete nobody. When their second guest strode down the docking ramp with unusual confidence, however, she all but forgot the first fantasy and stared at him, her attention snared in spite of herself. "He's got something," she mused aloud. "I can't put a name to it, but it borders on arrogance."

"Perhaps that's the best word there is to describe it," Roarke agreed, "along with charisma. Mr. Errico Bartolomé has both in abundance. He comes to us from the small Mediterranean island nation of Arcolos, and his fantasy is to find a wife."

"Arcolos!" blurted Leslie, astonished. "Has there ever been a guest from there before now, Mr. Roarke?"

"No, I believe this man is the first Arcolosian we have ever hosted," Roarke said with a slight smile. "As I said, he is looking for a wife. He was widowed approximately eight years ago and left with three young children, two sons and a daughter. He has been search-ing for quite some time, but tells me he is unable to find a suitable candidate, and that we are his last, best hope."

"We always have plenty of unattached women here," Leslie observed. "And with his looks and the charisma you mentioned, he'll have no shortage of admirers he can choose from. This should be an easy fantasy."

"Ah, Leslie," Roarke said with an exaggerated sigh, "have you forgotten so quickly? You've been here long enough to know full well that the course of a fantasy is impossible to predict, and that even the simplest fantasies have a habit of becoming complicated in the most unexpected ways."

"On their own, or with help from you?" countered Leslie, her eyes twinkling. Roarke gave her an overly mysterious look that made her laugh.

"As a matter of fact," he said, sobering for a moment, "the complications in this case are likely to arise from the fact that this man is not quite what he appears to be." And with that, he raised his newly-arrived drink and proceeded to deliver his usual welcome to his new guests, while Leslie pondered that statement and hoped it didn't mean something sinister.

‡ ‡ ‡

It was almost the first thing Bartolomé said when he stepped into Roarke's study from the foyer. "You haven't told anyone, have you, Mr. Roarke?"

"No," Roarke said, frowning slightly at the reminder. "Are you quite certain that's the wisest course of action, Mr. Bartolomé?"

"It's necessary," said the dark, very handsome man who stopped at the desk and stared intently at Roarke across the surface. "I simply must have peace in order to concen-trate on my fantasy, and this was the only way to get it." He spoke precise, correct English, flavored with a rich accent that to Roarke's practiced ears contained elements of several different Latin-derived languages.

"I see," Roarke said thoughtfully, then focused fully on his guest and gestured at a chair. "Please, Mr. Bartolomé, have a seat. I trust you have found your accommodations satisfactory, then?"

"Very much so," Bartolomé said warmly. "I have always thought my home island was lovely, but nothing can possibly match the beauty of yours. Now if you can grant my fantasy, it will be worth every centime I've paid."

Roarke loosed a soft chuckle and sat down as well, leaning back in his chair and regarding Bartolomé with some interest. "Tell me, Mr. Bartolomé, is there a specific type of woman you are looking for?"

This seemed to bring the Arcolosian up short for a moment; then he sighed. "She will need to be prepared to handle a great deal," he said slowly. "My lifestyle commands that I have such a woman to wife. She must be gentle, poised, able to control her emotions, com-fortable in formal settings, and good with children."

"Yes," Roarke agreed, drawing the word out a bit in contemplation. "Well, I see no reason you should have trouble finding such a woman here on Fantasy Island. And it's not very difficult to begin looking; we always have a full complement of guests, and wherever you choose to take your leisure, you can be assured that you'll find plenty of unattached young women from whom you may make your choice."

Bartolomé sat up in his chair and leaned forward. "Are many of your guests wealthy, Mr. Roarke?"

"Is that important?" Roarke inquired.

"It could be. A future wife of mine cannot allow her head to be easily turned by the prospect of great wealth—and we have that on Arcolos."

Roarke nodded. "Yes, the rainbow gems."

Bartolomé dug into a pocket of his blazer and extracted a fistful of loose stones that he dropped on the desktop. They scattered noisily over the surface; one bounced in Roarke's direction, and he easily caught it and examined it. At first glance it looked like a diamond; but when one looked more closely into the facets of the stone, it was possible to see light glinting off tiny chips of every color in the rainbow—hence the stone's name. "We call these stones _arcafleurie_ in my language," Bartolomé explained.

Still gazing into the stone, Roarke slowly turned it over in his fingers, noting the many-hued sparkles that reflected through the facets and created colorful spangles of light across the walls and ceiling. "A name that combines parts of the Italian word for 'rainbow' and the French word for 'gem'," he said almost absently, "reflecting the fact that your language has evolved from what was originally a combination of French and Italian spoken by the first settlers on the island."

Bartolomé peered at Roarke in surprise. "Very knowledgeable, Mr. Roarke," he said, plainly impressed. "So you do know something of my country."

"I also know," Roarke said, looking up then and handing the gem back to his guest, "that these stones can be found nowhere else on earth, and that as a result, their mining and sale has made every inhabitant of Arcolos quite well-off."

"There is not a single poor person on my island, Mr. Roarke," Bartolomé boasted. "We are all well-to-do, although some more so than others—it's simply a matter of degree. Only gold and diamonds are more highly prized than our rainbow gems. Now of course, we have a wonderful climate that makes us a desirable destination for visitors to southern Europe, and our postage stamps bring in revenue that rivals that of Monaco, Liechtenstein or Vatican City—but none of those would give us the standard of living we enjoy if we did not have the rainbow gems. Yet, on our island itself, they are so numerous, we use them for paperweights and decorations in children's mobiles."

"So," Roarke said, "such wealth would be extremely tempting to any woman, and it is obviously one of your fears that should a prospective candidate learn of that wealth, it may affect her response to you."

"You understand my position perfectly, Mr. Roarke, yes," Bartolomé said with satis-faction. He began to scoop the loose stones back into his hand as he spoke. "So you can see that there is a great need for secrecy here."

"Oh, but there's more to it than that, Mr. Bartolomé," Roarke reminded him quietly, but with a tone in his voice that made Bartolomé look up and then wince. However, before they could go any further along that tangent, the door opened and Leslie came in. Both men promptly arose from their chairs.

"Miss Sage is all set, Mr. Roarke," Leslie told him and came around to join him behind the desk, surveying the Arcolosian who stood with his hand in his pocket where he had just deposited his gem collection.

"Very good," said Roarke. He turned to their guest. "Mr. Bartolomé, may I present my assistant and daughter, Leslie Hamilton."

She nodded and smiled with the polite warmth of a host to a guest. "Hello, Mr. Bartolomé," she said, "it's a pleasure to meet you."

He bowed a little from the waist up, never taking his eyes off her. "The pleasure is entirely mine, Miss Hamilton," he said, reaching clear across the desk for her hand and lifting it to his lips for a moment. Caught well off guard, she turned red, more than a little relieved when he let go. Roarke stifled a smile, but not before Leslie noticed it, and he cleared his throat.

"Perhaps you'd prefer to repair to your bungalow and settle in before you begin your search," he suggested. "Lunch will be served here at twelve-thirty, and you are invited to join us for the meal."

"I accept, thank you, Mr. Roarke," Bartolomé replied, glancing at him and beginning to sidle away from the desk, but still studying Leslie. She stiffened under his intense scrutiny, her discomfort growing, and it was all she could do to maintain her politely welcoming expression. "I shall return at that hour and apprise you of my progress. Until then…" He nodded, then finally left, at which point she exhaled loudly and relaxed.

Roarke looked at her curiously. "Are you all right?"

"Did you see the way he was staring at me?" Leslie asked. "I felt like a bug under a microscope. I started wondering if my dress was coming unraveled or if a bird was building a nest in my hair or something."

Roarke laughed. "I believe he finds you of aesthetic interest," he remarked.

"I'm not so sure it was purely aesthetic," Leslie retorted. "The way he looked at me, I found myself remembering that crazy Adam O'Cearlach. I desperately hope this guy doesn't create the chaos he did."

"I expect he'll create his own sort of chaos," Roarke observed cryptically. "In the meantime, I believe we should make our rounds and see what Jean-Claude has on this evening's menu."

"Octopus. _Yuck_," said Leslie and shuddered. Roarke looked at her askance, and she added, _"_I don't know how he does it. Somehow, every several months he manages to find some seafood dish that's either more incredibly exotic or more just plain disgusting than the last one he came up with."

Roarke laughed again. "In that case, I suggest we make all possible haste to the hotel and find out what the alternatives are to his latest seafood adventure. You may find yourself relegated to a Caesar salad."

"Or macaroni and cheese," she kidded. On that teasing note they left the house to make the aforementioned rounds. 


	2. Chapter 2

§ § § -- August 3, 1991

By the time they did arrive at the hotel, they found Camille there with her husband, Jimmy Omamara, the assistant manager; they were having a rather messy lunch with their year-old son, David. Standing over them was the hotel's chef, Jean-Claude, still as irascible and ill-tempered as always, glaring at the oblivious little boy who was playing with slices of banana that Camille had cut for him. Jimmy saw Roarke and Leslie first and shot to his feet, making Jean-Claude snap to attention in his turn. Camille grinned up at them. "Hi, Leslie, Mr. Roarke. Haven't seen you two in a little while."

"Oh, you know us…busy, busy, busy," Leslie said lightly. "Taking a break?"

"Of sorts," Camille said, her grin turning a touch rueful as she regarded her son. "Jean-Claude thinks we're crazy not to start him on gourmet fare."

"Zees boy must be _trenned,"_ Jean-Claude growled in his nearly-incomprehensible French accent, which had always struck Leslie as different from, and even thicker than, Tattoo's. "Eef you do not tren 'eem, 'e always eat no more zen common peasant food."

"There's nothing wrong with 'common peasant food'," Leslie said mildly. "In fact, I'd say most people would rather have that than some of the more exotic stuff."

Jimmy snorted with amusement. "If that's your way of asking if the octopus is still on tonight's menu, then the answer is yes. And I refuse to train my son to eat gourmet fare by starting him out with octopus."

"Zere will be _some_one 'oo wants my spotlight deesh tonight," Jean-Claude said with a haughty stubbornness about him. "Zere eez always someone, no mattair what."

"He's right, you know," Roarke noted with carefully concealed amusement. "And I have received quite a few compliments on some of the most exotic items."

"I steel weesh to sairve fugu," Jean-Claude said, clasping his hands and staring at the ceiling, a look of rapture on his features. "Ah, ze most wondairful seafood deesh zat 'as evair been eenvented! Ze Japanese, zey do such marvelous sings wiz food."

Roarke's amusement vanished, while Camille, Leslie and Jimmy looked at one another blankly. "I'm sorry, Jean-Claude, but while you are chef in this hotel, on my island, you'll serve no fugu dishes," he said implacably. "Perhaps after your retirement, when you are solely responsible for what you serve your diners, you might try it. But I refuse to take any chances whatsoever with that fish."

Jean-Claude sighed deeply. "Ah, _m'sieur_ Roarke, you wound a man's 'eart. Fugu is my dream deesh…"

"I can't possibly imagine why," remarked an amused male voice, and they turned then to see Errico Bartolomé strolling through the breakfast room in their direction. "Fugu is highly toxic, my dear sir. Why, on my last trip to Japan, my host had a most unfortunate encounter with fugu. The chef had too little knowledge of its proper preparation."

"You mean he died?" Camille blurted, looking horrified.

"I'm quite afraid he did, my lady," Bartolomé said sadly, shaking his head. "Mr. Roarke, I commend you for maintaining a ban on fugu here. Without a doubt, that fish is gustatory Russian roulette." He turned to the sulking Jean-Claude. "Pray tell, my good sir, what's on the evening's menu?"

Jean-Claude muttered ungraciously, "Octopus _à la_ Jean-Claude."

"Octopus, you say? One of my very favorite seafood dishes," Bartolomé exclaimed, delighted. "You may look forward to seeing me in your dining room this evening, my good man. I haven't had the occasion to dine on octopus in several years." Jean-Claude stared at him in astonishment, a huge grin blooming on his rotund features, while the Arcolosian turned to Roarke. "If I may presume on your time, Mr. Roarke, I'd like a word with you."

"By all means," Roarke said. "Excuse me." He and Bartolomé moved aside, while Leslie stared after the latter man and shook her head.

"Guess I should have known," she mumbled. Sighing, she turned to the beaming chef. "So, Jean-Claude, what're the chances of there being swordfish on the menu?"

"For you, Meess Leslie, I shall 'ave eet," Jean-Claude promised, Bartolomé's unexpected enthusiasm having put him in a much better mood. "I send to ze feeshing veellage right away. _Excusez moi, s'il vous plait."_ He strode briskly away to the kitchens, and the Omamaras breathed simultaneous sighs of relief.

Leslie giggled at them. "That bad, huh? Well, that takes care of my primary reason for coming over here."

Camille smirked. "I don't blame you. So, who's that good-looking guy talking to Mr. Roarke, or am I banned from asking yet?"

"Oh, just a guest," said Leslie. "He's a widower looking for a new wife."

"Hm." Camille's eyebrows shot up and she peered more carefully at Bartolomé. "So he's available, is he?"

"Too bad you aren't," Jimmy reminded her pointedly.

Camille grinned at him. "Oh, calm down, I'm just yanking your chain. Well, he'll have no trouble at all finding a wife, with his looks."

"I should think not," Leslie agreed, "but as usual, Mr. Roarke's hedging his bets. And also as usual, he probably knows something the rest of us don't."

As it happened, at just about that very moment Roarke found it expedient to inquire about the necessity of keeping Bartolomé's secret from Leslie. "Forgive me for asking, but I find it difficult to apprise my daughter of the pertinent details of your fantasy without her knowing—particularly in light of your plans once you do find a new wife."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Roarke, but I just can't take that risk," Bartolomé said. "Oh, not that I'm suggesting your daughter would be so unprofessional as to spread the word if she knew the secret. But women have a way of talking. As you see, even now she is there chatting with that young family. Please, Mr. Roarke, don't tell anyone yet. I will advise you of the right time, but I've barely begun my search."

"Leslie and the wife of my assistant hotel manager have been friends for quite a few years," Roarke said, his tone cooling slightly, "but she has never revealed anything she should not, even to her friends." He hesitated, watching Leslie while she leaned over and tickled little David under the chin, then sighed quietly. "However, if it is your wish that I not tell her, then so be it. She won't know until you advise otherwise."

"Thank you," Bartolomé said wholeheartedly. "Thank you, Mr. Roarke, I truly do appreciate your cooperation. As for the other—are you quite sure there will be enough time to make all the arrangements?"

"Of course, Mr. Bartolomé, of course," replied Roarke, once again the warm and gracious host. "You need have no fear; the staff are extremely efficient, and they will handle everything once the word has been given."

"Splendid. Once again, I extend my deepest gratitude. Now I must be off once more; as you said earlier, there are so many lovely women to choose from." Bartolomé returned Roarke's smile and bowed slightly. "Excuse me."

Roarke nodded, watched him leave and frowned just perceptibly. Something didn't sit right with him about Bartolomé's excuse for keeping Leslie in the dark, but he couldn't put his finger on it at the moment. Other than the dismissive "women talk" statement, he had no real reason to wonder about it. He sighed again and went over to rejoin Leslie; he would just have to wait and see what developed as time passed.

At lunch, however, Bartolomé did surprise Roarke somewhat by remarking, "I do hope a week is long enough for me to find what I am seeking."

"A week?" echoed Leslie, halting in the course of lifting a soup spoon.

"Oh, I do apologize, Miss Hamilton," Bartolomé said, looking genuinely contrite. "I did advise Mr. Roarke that I meant to remain here that long, but I inadvertently omitted you. Please, my lady, do accept my humblest apologies. Of course," he said, turning to Roarke, "I admit to having a little trouble believing that you can accomplish in eight days what I haven't achieved in eight years."

Roarke and Leslie looked knowingly at each other, and Roarke produced another of his mysterious smiles. "Have a little faith, Mr. Bartolomé. After all, this is Fantasy Island."

Bartolomé quirked one eyebrow but made no comment otherwise. After a moment his gaze strayed to Leslie, who reached for her glass of sparkling white-grape juice with her left hand and thus put the wedding ring she still wore in plain view. Bartolomé stared at it as if he'd never seen such a thing before.

"I didn't realize you were married," he said, "and here I've been calling you _Miss_ Hamilton. Once again, I beg your forgiveness, my lady."

Leslie froze again and gave him a strangely haunted look, then cleared her throat and looked away. "I…actually I'm widowed, Mr. Bartolomé."

"Oh." Bartolomé looked suddenly intrigued; Roarke glanced at him, then at Leslie, a little concern arising as he noted her struggle to regain her composure. It had been about thirteen months now since Teppo's death, but she could still sometimes be thrown by unexpected reminders at some of the oddest moments.

She took a breath, lifted the glass and sipped from it, her eyes downcast. Roarke could appreciate her need for a stalling tactic, and said only, "It's still a recent tragedy for her, and she hasn't yet fully recovered. Why don't you try some of this pâté, Mr. Bartolomé? It's excellent—our Mariki is an extremely accomplished cook."

Having successfully diverted their guest's attention, Roarke cast Leslie a quick questioning look across the table. She smiled faintly and nodded, in an _I'm all right_ gesture, and he smiled back, looking reassured. She said very little more for the rest of the meal, and was clearly relieved when Roarke sent her to check up on their other fantasy.

After lunch neither of them saw their guest again until the Saturday-night luau, when they were making their rounds. They'd greeted nearly all their guests, fantasizers and vacationers alike, when Leslie's friends waved madly at her from a nearby table, clearly urging her to join them. Roarke looked at her curiously. "They do realize you are working," he said, a slight upswing in his tone that made it half question, half statement.

"Oh, they know," Leslie said and grinned, "but it's been quite a while since we were all together at the same time. But if you need me, Mr. Roarke, I'll make my excuses."

Roarke chuckled. "In fact, I was preparing to check with the buffet tenders, and I don't believe I need any help with that. Stay with your friends for a few minutes, and I'll return shortly." She nodded and went to join her friends at their table while Roarke moved off toward the buffet tables.

"Long time no see," said Myeko Sensei Tokita, the proud and happy wife of four months of Hachiro "Toki" Tokita. "I don't think I've seen you since my wedding."

"You're probably right," Leslie said, taking the extra chair that Myeko had appropriated for her from a nearby table. "I can't stay long, I'm on active duty. But while I'm here, what's going on?"

"Has that guy found a wife yet?" Camille asked.

"What guy?" Maureen said, exchanging blank looks with Lauren.

"One of the guests," Camille said. "He dropped in at the hotel this morning and had grouchy old Jean-Claude purring like a kitten. I suppose he's over there right now, scarfing down that octopus Jean-Claude insisted on serving."

"So he really did find someone who'd eat it," Lauren said, laughing. "I bet Leslie and Mr. Roarke avoided the hotel dining room this evening."

"You lose," Leslie teased her. "We did eat over there. I had swordfish and Mr. Roarke had paella. I take it Jimmy's babysitting tonight."

The girls talked for a few minutes; then someone stopped beside their table. Expecting Roarke, Leslie looked up and rocketed to her feet when she recognized Errico Bartolomé. "Oh, hello," she said. "Are you enjoying your evening?"

Bartolomé flashed snowy-white teeth at her. "I certainly am, my lady," he said. "I've just come from a most delicious meal of octopus _à la_ Jean-Claude at the hotel, and now I find you here at these exotic festivities. And I see you have companions."

"Yes," Leslie said, about to turn to her friends to make her excuses, then thought again and caught herself. "From the left, Maureen Tomai, Lauren McCormick, Myeko Tokita and Camille Omamara. Maureen and Lauren are both single."

"And looking," Lauren spoke up with a big grin. Maureen rolled her eyes and snickered resignedly at the same time.

"Ah," said Bartolomé, perusing Lauren and Maureen at some length. It became clear in just a second or two that Maureen interested him, and after a moment he inquired, "My dear lady, perhaps you'd care to join me for a dance and a drink or two?"

Maureen smiled. "Don't mind if I do," she said amiably. "See you later on, everyone." She arose, slipped her arm through Bartolomé's, and ambled off into the crowd with him while the other girls watched, Leslie with an inexplicable sense of relief.

"She gets all the luck," Lauren complained good-naturedly. "It must be those green eyes of hers. I guess your coffee break's over, Leslie—here comes Mr. Roarke."

Leslie glanced over her shoulder and saw that she was right. "Well, back to the salt mines," she said and grinned. "See you later, guys."

She stepped out from the table to fall in at Roarke's side when he paused to greet her friends briefly, then strolled slowly alongside him. Before she could say anything, Roarke queried, "Wasn't that your friend Maureen I saw with Mr. Bartolomé?"

"Yes, he stopped at our table and I introduced the other girls. I guess he took sort of a shine to Maureen. She doesn't really date much, so I was glad to see her accept his offer of a dance and some drinks." Leslie eyed Roarke curiously. "Why exactly is it going to take him a week to find a wife? Most others manage it in just a weekend."

Roarke cleared his throat. "He has his reasons, Leslie. After all, even here on the island, it's not always easy to ascertain compatibility in only two days. And of course, there are a great many candidates to choose from."

"There's that," Leslie agreed. "Well, who knows, maybe he and Maureen will hit it off. Although if they do, I'd really hate to see her leave the island."

"It's still only his first day," Roarke pointed out. "Why don't you wait and see before you begin worrying about losing another friend." 


	3. Chapter 3

§ § § -- August 3, 1991

It happened, in fact, that she had nothing to fear on that front at least. Mid-morning on Sunday, Maureen appeared unexpectedly in the main house, where Roarke and Leslie were preparing to start their usual rounds. They stopped and greeted her, both with considerable surprise. "How was your date?" Leslie asked.

"Good morning, Mr. Roarke," Maureen responded. "Hi, Leslie. Uh…about that date. I didn't get much out of it, but I think your friend Errico did. He spent almost the entire time grilling me about you, Leslie."

"Me!" Leslie said, staring at her. "What did he ask you?"

"Everything," Maureen said, shrugging. "How old you are, how long you've been on the island, how long you were married, where you were born, whether you liked kids, all sorts of stuff. I finally decided just to leave. I told him if all he was going to do was ask me about you, there wasn't any point in me wasting more of my time."

Leslie finally turned to Roarke to see his reaction; he looked thoughtful. After a moment he asked Maureen, "So it's your opinion that Mr. Bartolomé is interested in Leslie?"

"I thought it was kind of obvious," Maureen said. "What other conclusion can I draw when he was with me but couldn't talk about anything but her?"

"I'm sorry, Maureen," Leslie said helplessly.

"Oh, it's not your fault," Maureen said and smiled at her. "I just thought you two might like to know. Especially since I know you aren't interested in getting involved with someone else right now, with Teppo being gone only about a year. That way, you can decide if you want to put the brakes on things now, or wait and see if you're overreacting."

"After what you just told me," Leslie said, "I don't think it'd be possible for me to overreact. It's not as if he doesn't realize I'm still grieving for Teppo. He saw my ring at lunch yesterday, and Mr. Roarke put it to him about as plainly as anyone can."

Roarke remembered something and observed, "Perhaps he heard the word 'widowed' and decided it gave him something in common with you. He did look overtly interested after I told him that." He started to mention his earlier misgivings about Bartolomé's reasons for not letting Leslie in on his secret, then checked himself.

"Was there more, Mr. Roarke?" Leslie asked.

"No, no," he said dismissively. "Continue to treat him normally, Leslie. Simply be the man's hostess. If something does happen, however, let me know as soon as you can."

"Is he a crook on the lam and you're trying to nail him?" Maureen asked, face lighting with new interest. "I mean, it sounds like you want to warn him off Leslie."

Roarke laughed. "No, nothing like that, Maureen. But it's clear that Leslie has no interest in another relationship. Losing Teppo hit her very hard; and only she can decide when she is ready again. If Mr. Bartolomé continues his pursuit of her, and if she finds herself unsuccessful in discouraging him, I may have to step in."

"Oh, I'll set him straight quick enough," Leslie said, scowling. "He's had eight years to adjust to the death of his wife. I'm not sure I'll ever get over Teppo."

Maureen bit her lip. "Well, I guess I should be going so you can get to work."

"Thanks for coming over," Leslie said. "Frankly, I appreciate it."

Roarke laughed quietly. "Indeed," he said, a touch of irony in his voice, and she turned pink but smiled. "Thank you for your input, Maureen. Please excuse us."

"Of course," she said and left with some haste. Leslie watched her go and then blew out a great sigh.

"I suppose it's only fair to give him the benefit of the doubt," she admitted to Roarke after some thought. "I mean, he hasn't actually approached me." She stood contemplating something for several minutes while Roarke gathered some papers, folded them and slipped them into an envelope. As he was sliding this into the inner pocket of his jacket, he noticed her expression and stance.

"Is something wrong, Leslie?" he asked.

She regarded him with an almost plaintive look. "Do you believe there's such a thing as love at first sight, Mr. Roarke?" she asked. "I mean, I realize it's probably happened here on countless other occasions. But how long do you think those connections lasted once they left the island and the romantic glow fell off?"

"Oh, a number of relationships that began with love at first sight have thrived for many years," Roarke said. "It doesn't always work out, of course, but then again, neither do all relationships that culminated in marriage only after several years of mutual knowledge and familiarity. When it comes to love, my daughter, the only certain thing is that nothing is certain." He grinned when she rolled her eyes.

"That figures," she said. "So what you're telling me is just to wait."

"Precisely. As you yourself said, he has yet to approach you, so let him take whatever course he plans to take; and when he has made his intentions clear, then you may explain your own position. And if necessary, I will back you up."

Leslie finally relaxed. "All right. Thank you, Mr. Roarke."

He smiled. "No need. For now, let's begin our rounds and find out what the day holds in store."

§ § § -- August 5, 1991

On Monday morning, after seeing off most of their other guests, Roarke and Leslie returned to the main house to find Lauren waiting for them on the front veranda, pacing a small area at the top of the steps from the sidewalk and looking agitated. "Are you okay?" Leslie asked the moment she and Roarke stepped out of the car.

"Just mad," Lauren said, shaking her head. "Do you mind if I come in for a few minutes? There's something I think you ought to know about."

"By all means, Lauren," Roarke said, and the threesome made their way into the house, where Lauren sank into a chair at Roarke's invitation while Leslie began to gather crystal water goblets onto a tray that sat on the nearby table, to take to the kitchen for washing. "Now, what exactly is troubling you?"

"Your guest Mr. Bartolomé," Lauren told him. "He and I ran into each other in Amberville yesterday afternoon, and he asked me out for last evening. I figured he and Maureen must not have gotten along too well, so I agreed. He took me to the hotel restaurant, and then all we ever talked about was Leslie."

A musical crash resounded through the room and Roarke looked up sharply; Lauren twisted in her chair at the same moment. Leslie stood looking dumbfounded, one hand half curled as if around a glass; jagged shards of crystal lay at her feet, some of them resting atop her shoes. "Leslie," Roarke said, gently admonishing.

She didn't seem to have heard him. "You talked about me?" she demanded.

"He asked me questions all night," Lauren said, glancing one last time at the glass at her friend's feet before focusing on her face. "Wanted to know how long you and I have been friends, and what sort of person you are, and what kind of family history you have."

Roarke cleared his throat. "I apologize, Lauren," he said. "But as you may have known, Mr. Bartolomé is in the market for a wife, and—"

"Oh, I knew that, and you shouldn't feel you have to apologize for him, Mr. Roarke," Lauren said, standing up. "But he was so single-minded about Leslie, I just thought it was a good idea to mention it. I know she isn't really over poor Teppo yet, and I thought it would help if she knew so she can warn this guy to back off once and for all."

"As a matter of fact," Leslie said grimly, "you just read my mind, Lauren. I appreciate your telling us—more than you know." She started for the foyer, heedless of the glass that fell off her shoes and crunched beneath them.

"Leslie, I suggest you wait here," Roarke said firmly, stopping her in her tracks. To Lauren he said, "Thank you for coming, Lauren. I believe Leslie and I can handle it from here. I am sorry, however, that you didn't enjoy your evening."

Lauren grinned. "Oh, that's okay, Mr. Roarke. I ordered the _boeuf à la bourguignon_, which is one of my favorite dishes, and it was all on his dime. So I got an excellent meal out of it at least." Roarke chuckled and her grin got wider. "Look for the silver lining, I always say. Well, I'll let you two get to work, or whatever you have to do. Good luck, Leslie." She slipped past her friend, dropping a pat on her arm along the way, and let herself out.

"_Now_ can I go over there and knock some sense into his head?" Leslie demanded as soon as Lauren was gone.

"Leslie, I think perhaps you had better take a seat and get some control over your temper before you go anywhere," Roarke said sternly. She opened her mouth to argue, but at that moment the door opened again and the very object of their discussion poked his head in, glancing quizzically around and lighting up when he saw Roarke and Leslie.

"Ah, Mr. Roarke, Miss Hamilton!" Errico Bartolomé exclaimed, beaming. "I do hope I'm not interrupting anything."

"No, not at all, Mr. Bartolomé," Roarke said warmly. "Please come in."

Bartolomé promptly acted on his invitation, giving Leslie a broad smile as he came down the steps. She merely watched without responding; his smile faltered and he glanced away, clearing his throat and looking faintly puzzled before turning his attention to Roarke. "I have had two dates so far," he announced, "and neither of them has been particularly successful. The ladies in question were both very kind, but unfortunately, not quite what I'm looking for."

"Maybe," said Leslie unexpectedly, frost coating her words, "that's because you've already settled on your candidate."

Bartolomé turned to her with amazement on his dark features. "However did you know that, my lady?" He beamed suddenly. "Why, of course, I forget where I am. The famous Fantasy Island, where the hosts know all. Then you have already realized that I have indeed settled on a candidate for my new wife, and that would be you. May I call you Leslie, my dearest?"

Leslie, who had been fully prepared to give him a piece of her mind, stared at him; even Roarke couldn't think of anything to say for a long moment, though he understood instinctively that the situation was slipping swiftly out of his control. Neither of them had expected Bartolomé to so baldly state his intentions so quickly.

Bartolomé took their stunned silence as assent on Leslie's part and came to her, lifting her hand and kissing it with a rather lingering motion. "My dearest Leslie," he said softly, "I know we shall be very happy together. I want to make a formal proposal—"

"_No!"_ she burst out, coming quite abruptly to life and recoiling from him. "No, Mr. Bartolomé, I have no interest in being your wife. I have no feelings for you, and frankly, you strike me as more than a little bold. Maybe even a bit rude. You asked my friends Maureen and Lauren out for a pleasant evening, and then drove them both crazy talking about me all night, plying them with questions that really aren't any of your business. Let me make it as plain to you as I possibly can, Mr. Bartolomé. I am a widow. I was very much in love with my husband, and we had five wonderful years together before he was killed. This happened just over a year ago, and I have no interest in starting a new relationship with anyone, including you. I haven't yet finished grieving for Teppo, and I don't want another husband: not now, maybe not ever. The answer is no, Mr. Bartolomé—absolutely, positively _no!"_ She yanked her hand out of his and stepped back. "If you'll excuse me, I have some errands that have to be taken care of." She shouldered past him and finally made her escape; Bartolomé was too stunned by her vociferous protest to stop her, and Roarke merely let her go, aware that she needed time to cool down.

Mariki appeared in the foyer about five seconds after Leslie slammed the door. She glanced at Roarke, at his guest, and then at the glass scattered on the study floor. "Let me get a dustpan and clean that up, Mr. Roarke," she said, sneezed loudly and unexpectedly, and headed back to the kitchen with brisk strides.

Her voice finally jarred Bartolomé from his astonishment. "Well, Mr. Roarke," he said thoughtfully. "It seems your Leslie knows her own mind."

"She always has," Roarke observed, a touch ruefully. "At any rate, I believe she has made herself quite clear. I apologize for her rather strong manner of delivery…"

Bartolomé chuckled. "That bothers me not a whit, Mr. Roarke. I know exactly what needs to be done now. Thank you, my dear sir, and do excuse me." He walked out, leaving behind a puzzled and somewhat concerned Roarke. 


	4. Chapter 4

§ § § -- August 5, 1991

Around lunchtime Bartolomé passed by the main house and saw Roarke and Leslie having their meal on the veranda as they almost always did; about to call out a greeting, he suddenly saw Mariki appear with her serving cart and decided to wait and let her finish serving her employers before he put in an appearance. What he heard, however, gave birth to what he considered a wonderful idea.

"I thought you might like—ah…_choo!"_ Mariki whipped her head to one side and released an explosive sneeze that made both Roarke and Leslie rear back slightly in their chairs and stare at her with wide-eyed concern.

"Are you okay?" Leslie finally asked.

"I don't know," Mariki admitted. "I woke up with a sore throat this morning, and now I've been sneezing all day. My head hurts too. But there's no one else who can—"

"Say no more, Mariki," Roarke said, holding up a hand. "It sounds as though you're coming down with a cold. I insist that you take the rest of the afternoon off and rest at home. You shouldn't make the problem worse by trying to work through the day."

"But who will prepare the evening meal for you?" Mariki fretted anxiously, sounding slightly stuffed up in the wake of her sneeze. "No one else in the kitchen can cook properly, and I don't trust Kalani or Malana to…"

"Oh, cut it out, Mariki," Leslie said with a grin to temper the words. "We won't starve to death, if that's what you're afraid of. We can just have supper at the hotel."

"Are you sure, Miss Leslie?" Mariki asked doubtfully.

"Of course," Leslie and Roarke said in perfect chorus. Roarke added, "Enough is enough, Mariki. You're better off at home if you're not feeling well. Now go on home and take care of yourself, so that you don't intensify the illness."

Finally Mariki acquiesced and wheeled her cart back to the kitchen, and Roarke and Leslie resumed eating. After a bite Roarke said, "As a matter of fact, Leslie, it will be quite a late dinner, I'm afraid. I will need to spend the afternoon making arrangements to open up a castle on the other side of the island for the Van Deventer fantasy next weekend."

"How late do you expect to be?" Leslie asked, not overly concerned.

"Past eight at least," Roarke replied. "You might be wiser to have the evening meal at the usual hour instead of waiting for me to return."

Leslie looked up in surprise. "Really? Just how big is this castle?"

"It's quite a large one," Roarke said. "It's owned by a man who goes solely by the name of Ignatius, who is a relative of one Alphonse…whom you might remember."

"Oh, the Alphonse who kidnapped Tattoo?" Leslie said and grinned. "I remember Tattoo saying that that's one big building. Well, in that case, I guess I'll go ahead and have supper at the hotel, at the usual time. But when you do come home, I think you should have something to eat as well. If it isn't healthy for me to skip a meal, then it's not healthy for you to do it either."

Roarke chuckled. "I will take that under advisement," he said and extracted his gold watch. "It's somewhat later than I expected. We'd better hurry."

Delighted with the plans he had just overheard, Bartolomé turned and jogged away in the direction he'd originally come to pay a visit to his new friend Jean-Claude. It took him a little while to talk the crotchety chef into cooperating with him, but he finally convinced him to go along with the plan. Pleased with himself, he then went to a jeweler in Amberville and gave him three of the rainbow gems he had brought with him, explaining what he wanted done with them and gaining the man's cooperation with a mind-boggling sum that had the jeweler all but kowtowing to him. _She can't refuse me now,_ he thought smugly to himself, strolling back to his bungalow and eagerly anticipating the evening.

‡ ‡ ‡

Leslie was more than a little astonished when Jean-Claude himself emerged from the kitchen, waving aside her waiter and standing over her with a solicitous look. "Meess Leslie, so good of you to gress my dining room thees evening," he said. "I 'ave ze special deesh waiting for you." He turned to the waiter and snapped, "Go, you fool, an' get ze deesh." The waiter scurried off, clearly intimidated. Leslie didn't think she had seen him before; he was very young and probably new.

"What's this all about?" she asked, perplexed.

Jean-Claude eyed her, looking wounded. "You do not weesh ze special deesh?"

Leslie hesitated, wondering uneasily what peculiar seafood item she was going to be forced to sample. "Well, I…" She got no further, for the waiter appeared at that moment bearing a silver platter. "Wow, that was quick."

"_Bon, bon,"_ Jean-Claude said curtly to the waiter, "you move fast for ze chenge. Do not stan' zere, sairve ze deesh!"

"Right away," squeaked the teenage boy and set the platter on the table, lifting the cover to reveal a steaming plate. Leslie caught a whiff and looked at Jean-Claude in surprise; it was definitely a fish dish, but it didn't smell like something unfamiliar.

"Be'old," Jean-Claude said and swept his hand over the plate with a flourish of pride. "For you, Meess Leslie—_filets de poisson dugléré."_

"Oh," she said, peering at the plate with interest. "I'm sorry, my French is nonexistent. Could you maybe translate that?"

"Poached feesh wiz tomato," Jean-Claude told her, beaming. "An' I know you are born een ze _Angleterre-Neuve_, so I use cod een ze deesh."

It took her a moment to realize he meant New England, and suddenly she appreciated the trouble he'd gone to. She relaxed and smiled. _"Merci beaucoup_, Jean-Claude," she said. "I'm sure I'll enjoy this very much." Jean-Claude's face nearly split in two with an enormous grin that clearly flabbergasted the teenage waiter, who watched him leave for about five full seconds before coming to with a start at Leslie's soft giggle and scuttling away.

She had had time to savor only one bite before someone else stopped at her table and inquired with unusual deference, "Might I have this seat, my lady?" She looked up and found herself staring at Errico Bartolomé, whose face was alight with childlike hope.

Warily she said, "I don't know if I should let you."

"Oh, please, my dear Miss Hamilton, I do apologize for my forward manner this morning. I had no idea you felt so. I admit, you took me quite by surprise, but I truly do understand your position, believe me. I should feel so much better if you'd but forgive me and allow me to dine with you." He took in her unchanged expression and added, "As friends, of course. Your assistance would be as valuable to me as Mr. Roarke's, and I should surely hate to continue on knowing that you were upset with me. Are you still so, then?"

His effusive speech confused her a little, and she had to sort out his words before coming to the conclusion that he simply wanted to mend fences between them. Though still a little leery of him, Leslie had to admit to herself that there wasn't any obvious reason to refuse him. So she said with a trace of reluctance, "Well, since you put it that way, then by all means, sit down. You should try some of this." She indicated the plate in front of her.

"Ah, Jean-Claude knows what I like," Bartolomé said dismissively, settling into the chair opposite her. "As a token of my sincerity, I should be very happy if you would accept this." From his blazer pocket he produced a delicate gold chain bracelet set with three small, sparkling rainbow gems. "For you."

Leslie stared, lower jaw sinking slightly and stunned eyes fixed on the bracelet. "Oh, I really shouldn't…" she began.

"My dearest lady, if you turn me down, I should be desperately disappointed," he said earnestly, leaning across the table. "Please, accept this as a token of my apology and my sincerest good wishes to you. I beg you."

Wondering in the back of her brain if Roarke would chastise her for accepting gifts from guests, she slowly reached for the bracelet, then stopped herself. "I don't think I'm supposed to…" she began, a little wistful despite herself.

"I shall clear it with Mr. Roarke myself," Bartolomé promised her, as if reading her mind. "Never fear. As I said, a token of apology, as well as friendship."

She loosed a sigh of defeat and finally accepted the proffered bracelet. "Thank you," she said, feeling that the words were inadequate. "Thank you very much."

Jean-Claude appeared once more, bearing a plate for Bartolomé and setting it in front of him with another flourish. "As you request before," he said, _"boeuf à la bourguignon."_

Leslie looked up sharply at that, and Bartolomé caught it and laughed self-consciously. _"Milla gràcie,_ my good man, _milla gràcie."_ Jean-Claude beamed again and left them.

"That sounds Italian, what you just said," Leslie remarked, momentarily distracted.

"It means 'a thousand thanks' in the Arcolosian tongue," Bartolomé explained. "Our language, as Mr. Roarke noted when I came here, has evolved from a mixture of the French and Italian that our first settlers from those two countries spoke. We also have any number of words that arose on their own, so that they are distinctly and uniquely Arcolosian." He stopped, noting that Leslie sat and simply watched him. "Is something wrong?"

"Your dish," she said. "It's what my friend Lauren ordered when you ate with her last evening."

He actually turned red. "I could not resist—it looked delectable when I saw her eating it. And besides, Jean-Claude has no more octopus."

She blinked once at him, then suddenly fell back in her chair and burst out laughing. "All right, all right, Mr. Bartolomé, I give up. All your apologies are hereby accepted. And once again, I thank you for the bracelet. Now, for heaven's sake, enjoy your meal, and why don't we talk about more pleasant things." 


	5. Chapter 5

§ § § -- August 8, 1991

Roarke had been delighted to hear that Leslie and Bartolomé had smoothed over their disagreement and been able to get along; but by Thursday, he had seen more of his effusive guest than even he could take without reacting somehow. Not that Bartolomé had necessarily been intrusive; his gentle interest in, and flattery of, Leslie and her activities was subtle enough to leave her completely unaware of what he was really up to. Since Leslie had stated her position quite clearly at a very early stage in the game, Roarke felt no qualms about probing a little into Bartolomé's intentions towards her.

Bartolomé had escorted Leslie back from a trip she had made to Amberville, and when they appeared at the main house together, Roarke gave her an errand that he himself could have easily conducted over the phone. "Leslie, would you please do me a favor and stop at Julie's to get a room list and a menu?" he asked. "I would do it, but I'm afraid there's a great deal to be done here."

"That's all right, Mr. Roarke, I don't mind," said Leslie. "As a matter of fact, I can do that on my way to the post office to pick up those packages they called you about yesterday afternoon."

"Very good," Roarke agreed. "Oh, and Mr. Bartolomé, a word with you, please." The guest stopped in surprise and waited, watching Leslie leave, then turned to Roarke.

"Is there something I can do for you, my kind sir?" he inquired.

"Not to suggest that you have been, uh…intrusive," Roarke said, "but I do notice you have been keeping quite frequent company with Leslie lately, nearly to the exclusion of anyone else."

Bartolomé chuckled. "I presume 'intrusive' was your ever-so-polite way of asking me if I've been a pest," he said good-naturedly. "Actually, Mr. Roarke, I put the question to your daughter herself, and she assured me that I'm no such thing. She tells me she enjoys my company and that it helps to make her routine errands go more quickly. She's a fine, lovely, charming woman, and I find it a delight simply to be around her."

Roarke smiled. "I hope she hasn't been neglecting anything."

"No, not at all—she's very attentive to all the guests, from everything I have seen. She's poised, gracious, kind and accommodating, ready with a smile for everyone. Growing up with you seems to have been an excellent influence on her."

_Exactly the qualities you are looking for,_ Roarke thought, ignoring the subtle flattery and regarding Bartolomé for a moment before casually inquiring, "And does she realize you have ulterior motives?"

The Arcolosian froze for a second or two and stared back at him in sheer amazement. At last he murmured something, perhaps an oath, in his native language and slowly shook his head, impressed respect on his face. "You miss nothing at all, my good sir, do you?"

"It's my business to know what is happening on my island, Mr. Bartolomé," Roarke informed him matter-of-factly. "In view of Leslie's very clearly stated intentions several days ago, I must ask you this: what are your intentions regarding her?"

Bartolomé nodded. "A fair question. I shall be just as frank, Mr. Roarke. I want very much to marry Leslie. I realize I moved far too quickly by playing my hand so soon, and that I hadn't properly courted her before making my proposal. Now we get on beautifully, and she has shown that she will be the perfect wife. My people will love her."

"When did you plan to propose to her once again?" Roarke asked, his voice cooling noticeably. "After all, sooner or later you must let her know your intentions—and furthermore, to be fully honest with her, you are going to have to reveal your true identity."

Bartolomé sighed very deeply. "Yes, I suppose that's inevitable. But surely she will be unable to resist. Perhaps Arcolos hasn't the lush beauty of your island, Mr. Roarke, but then again, no place on earth does. She shall have everything her heart desires, and she will lack for nothing in her life. This I vow."

Roarke studied him with a shuttered expression and said quietly, "I am not the one you must convince, Mr. Bartolomé."

The two men eyed each other for a long moment; then Bartolomé nodded. "I see your point, sir. In that case, when she returns, please send her to my bungalow, if you would be so kind, and I shall cease my masquerade." Roarke only nodded in response, and Bartolomé pivoted on one heel and left the house.

About fifteen minutes later Leslie, still rather perplexed at her adoptive father's brusquely-delivered message, knocked on the door of Errico Bartolomé's bungalow. It took mere seconds before the door flew open and his beaming face peered out at her. "My dearest Leslie! Please do come in." He stepped aside, pulling the door wide for her, and followed her in. "This chair here, please. So good of you to come."

"Is there anything I can do for you?" Leslie asked, settling into the indicated chair.

"Oh, indeed there is. There quite certainly is. First and foremost, before I begin, I should say something very important to you." He took a deep breath and spoke in Arcolosian. _"E ké'at aurissât."_

It sounded neither French-derived nor Italian-derived; in fact it sounded like nonsense to Leslie. She squinted at him and asked, "What does that mean?"

His expression softened and he knelt in front of her, directing his most earnest gaze at her. "It means 'I love you'," he said, "and I do, believe me."

She sat still, only her eyes widening with the onset of simultaneous outrage and alarm. Her silence seemed to encourage him. "What's more, I beseech you once again, my dearest Leslie, please do me the great honor of becoming my wife. You shall lack for nothing whatsoever—anything you wish, it shall be yours. You'll have the finest that money can buy and you will have all my devotion for the rest of our lives."

"Wait a minute," she said faintly, overwhelmed.

But he steamrollered on, as though he hadn't heard. "There will be a great celebration when my people hear at last that I have found a wife," he said joyfully. "All Arcolos will turn out to see you and welcome you as their new—"

"_Hold it!"_ Leslie exploded, shocked and bewildered all at once. "Just a minute here. Back up. Are you proposing to me again—after I made it more than clear to you that I have no interest in remarrying?"

"But…I thought you…" Bartolomé began, startled.

"No, you thought wrong," she said. "I never once indicated to you that I'd changed my mind about that. If you think I did, then you've been reading things into my words, my actions, whatever. The answer is no."

Bartolomé shot to his feet. "You wound me to the very core, my dear. I was certain you would respond to my courting."

"Is that what you were doing?" she cried, rocketing to her own feet as well. "All this time I thought you were being friendly, and you were leading up to this? How many times do I have to say it? How much more plainly can I express it to you? Maybe this will help you understand!" She promptly began to empty the pockets of her dress; out tumbled a shower of jewelry and loose gemstones. "You were giving me all these things to bribe me into being your wife. Well, now that I know, I don't want them anymore. You can keep all your presents and your precious gems and whatever else you planned on giving me. I'm not marrying you or anyone else, and I'm not leaving Fantasy Island!"

"Oh, but my dear Leslie, you don't understand," Bartolomé informed her, his voice silky but suddenly quite implacable. She had turned and started for the door, and he seized her hand and pulled her back, yanking her to him so that she collided gently with him and found herself staring up into his now very imperious expression. "You can't refuse me, don't you see? For I am His Royal Highness, Prince Errico V of Arcolos—and no woman in the long and illustrious history of my country has ever refused the hand of royalty."

Completely stunned now, she gaped at him, trying her level best to assimilate this new and astounding information. She began to shake her head, trying to deny what she'd just been told. "No," she murmured faintly.

"Oh yes," he said and nodded, smiling coldly. "Yes indeed. You are to be Princess Leslie of Arcolos. No woman has ever refused the hand of royalty because no woman has ever been _allowed_ to do so. You are obligated to accept my proposal. It's part of the Arcolosian constitution, the Divine Right of Kings."

She cast desperately about for some way out of this. "But you're only a prince," she said inanely. "And there's no 'divine right' for princes."

"I am to be the next king," Bartolomé said. "It doesn't matter that I am not yet king; I will be one day. I may still exercise that right, and I am doing so right now." He leaned over and tried to kiss her, but she cranked her head sharply to one side and began to struggle in his grasp. Suddenly enraged, he pushed her away from him.

"I've tried to be reasonable with you," he said icily. "I've tried to win your friendship, courted you, done all I can to make you understand. But you continue to resist me. Perhaps when I explain myself fully to Mr. Roarke, you'll find that you have no choice."

Leslie glared at him, her temper finally escaping her control. "You seem to think you can simply swoop in and take whatever you want, don't you," she hissed. "You think of yourself as the irresistible force, sweeping along everything that stands in your way and either stuffing it in your pocket or shoving it aside. Well, guess what, _Prince_—you've just met the immovable object!" With that, she stalked out of the bungalow, slamming the door behind her to let off some steam, and strode all the way back to the main house in high dudgeon. As she walked, she mentally reviewed Bartolomé's actions and words, realizing that his royal status answered a lot of questions she'd had ever since his arrival the previous Saturday. And that's when she remembered what Roarke had said when he'd first introduced him. _"…this man is not quite what he appears to be."_ Her temper really soared then. He had known all along and said nothing to her!

By the time she stormed into the main house, she was in such a state that Roarke stared at her in alarm. "Leslie, are you all right?" he exclaimed.

"You should have told me he was a prince!" she snapped at him in a rage.

Roarke slowly arose from his chair. "So he did reveal himself."

"Yes, he did," she shouted, her temper boiling over. "You knew from the day he first set foot on this island, and yet you didn't tell me. You let me go on thinking he was just another guest with a fantasy. My God, Mr. Roarke, I'm your assistant—don't you think I had a right to know, especially after he set his sights on me?"

"Leslie," he began.

But she was too far gone to stop. "Do you realize what he's done now? He's going to make me his wife—his _princess_, for crying out loud—whether I want it or not. He claims the Arcolosian constitution and the so-called Divine Right of Kings state that he can't be turned down when he makes a marriage choice. How he and his country get away with that in this day and age, I have no idea whatsoever—but I refuse to just let him carry me off like some Neanderthal. There has to be some way to thwart him, and you can bet your last dollar that you're going to help me get out of this, Mr. Roarke! Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because he insisted that I reveal his secret to no one," Roarke replied, his voice calm but glacial. "In his initial letter to me, he specifically requested that I not tell a soul—including you—who he really was, for fear that the knowledge would taint his search. As you know full well, young lady, when a guest makes a request of me, I am bound to honor that request. My hands were tied. If you wish to take exception to that, then you should do so with Prince Errico, not me."

"Why didn't you tell him you were making an exception for me?" she shouted.

That brought Roarke out from behind the desk, his own temper beginning to rise, though he fought hard to keep it under his control. "For your information, my dear Leslie, I did in fact try to secure his permission to tell you everything. He refused me point-blank and reiterated his insistence that I not reveal his identity." Leslie drew in a breath to argue, and he overrode her, finally raising his voice just enough to quiet her. _"That's enough!_ You have every right to be angry over his apparent deception of you, but you have had a chance to expel that anger, and now it's time for you to calm yourself and start to think rationally! Do you understand me, Leslie Susan?"

Never before had Leslie seen him so angry, and it brought her back to her senses with a blink and a gasp. "Oh my God, Mr. Roarke, I'm so sorry," she moaned, and sank into the nearest chair, hiding her face in her hands. Roarke watched in silence for a moment while she rocked back and forth, shaking her head. When she looked up, tears glittered in her eyes. "I was furious with him and I took it out on you." His expression softened then and he smiled, and she fell back in the chair, looking exhausted. "I wish I could understand just what's happening and why."

Roarke took the other chair and leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. "First of all, tell me precisely what happened at the prince's bungalow."

Staring at the ceiling as she narrated what she saw in her mind's eye, she told him the entire story. "The Divine Right of Kings," she mumbled a moment or two after finishing, finally focusing on Roarke. "Is there such a thing?"

"Henry VIII was especially famous for invoking it," Roarke said, nodding. "Under this decree, a king was entitled to anything—or anyone—he wanted, anytime he wanted it. He could not be refused under penalty of death."

Leslie frowned. "In other words, it gives him absolute power," she said.

"Precisely," Roarke confirmed. "While I have little practical knowledge of Arcolosian law, written or not, it would appear that you are the first woman who has ever refused an Arcolosian monarch and not been immediately put to death."

Leslie sat up ramrod-straight and went pure white, staring at him. "Mr. Roarke, do you think he'd really have done that?"

Roarke chuckled shortly. "Do you truly believe he would have been allowed to do so? You underestimate me, Leslie." She smiled faintly and shrugged.

"So what can we do about it?" she asked. "Obviously I have no intention of marrying him and leaving Fantasy Island with him; and at the same time he believes that, simply because he's royalty, he'll get his way no matter what. The question here is, how can he possibly think he'll get away with it? No other country in the world gives credence to the Divine Right of Kings anymore. After it was abolished everywhere else, what happened when an Arcolosian royal insisted on marrying a royal from another country?"

Roarke considered this for a moment. "It does seem that he wouldn't have a leg to stand on, so to speak," he remarked. "However, from what you have told me, it also seems that he expects to hold the upper hand over you solely by virtue of the Divine Right. As to your last question, we can only do some research and find out."

At that moment the phone rang, and Leslie started at the sound before wilting back into the chair again. Roarke turned and lifted the receiver. "Yes?…Is she indeed! That will be quite an event. Yes, I will handle it immediately. Thank you." He hung up and turned to Leslie with a sparkle in his dark eyes. "Perhaps this will help to cheer you up. I have just been informed that your friend, Michiko Tokita, is returning to the island on tomorrow's final charter for the day. I am to send a pass via courier to her in Honolulu, where she is currently staying with her sister and brother-in-law, so that she may return home for the first time in at least five years."

Leslie lit up. "That's wonderful! We haven't heard from her in so long—wait till I tell the other girls. They'll probably want to come with us to meet her at the plane dock."

"I suspected you would want to do just that," Roarke said, grinning broadly. "So that will be something to keep your spirits up while we look for a way around this little problem. In fact…" He arose and unlocked the desk drawer that held the passes, handing one to Leslie. "Why don't you go now and give this to the courier, who will meet you at the dock; and then stop at the library in town and check out whatever books they may have about Arcolos. We may as well begin the research now, since I have this evening free." 


	6. Chapter 6

§ § § -- August 8, 1991

Leslie was convinced her head was going to crack wide open. After delivering the pass to the courier, who had then left with the next charter flight, she'd searched the library in Amberville and managed to find fully a dozen rather thick books about Arcolos and its history. Since then both she and Roarke had been poring over them at great length, taking a break only long enough to have their evening meal and then returning to their research. By now it was approaching eleven o'clock.

What she had learned about Arcolos in the course of the last six or seven hours was nearly enough to constitute a college course. Among many other things, she had discovered that Arcolos had in its past been fought over countless times by France and Italy, with Spain and a couple of northern African countries occasionally joining in, before the descendants of the original French and Italian settlers had finally declared their independence and anointed the mayor of the largest town, Santi Arcuros—now the national capital—as their new king. In those days the Divine Right of Kings had been exercised by all the world's monarchs, and the new Arcolosian monarch was no exception. Meantime, the culture had already been well established; the language resembled its current form, and the rainbow gems were discovered within five years of the islanders declaring their independence. Once mining operations got underway, it didn't take long before the Arcolosians realized they had an unsurpassable bargaining chip in these rare gems. For several centuries, all it had taken was a threat to remove the rainbow gems from the world market, and other countries had capitulated to Arcolos' demands without further protest.

When Leslie had read that aloud, she'd looked at Roarke and found him looking right back at her with an ironic cast to his expression. "There lies the path to arrogance," he observed dryly, and she'd burst out laughing.

"And it's obviously stuck with them to this very day," she agreed, shaking her head. "I bet that's why they still practice the Divine Right of Kings. That arrogance must have given rise to the idea that they were invincible, and thus entitled to take what they wanted, when they wanted it."

"So it would appear," Roarke concurred. "Very good reasoning. Continue on—you never know what may turn out to be useful."

After that they had read out snippets of information to each other now and then. "All Arcolosian law turns out to be based on tradition," Roarke remarked in surprise at one point. "Whatever traditions were already in place at the time the country declared its independence were written into law. That explains a number of quite peculiar laws I have seen enumerated in this book."

"Such as what, for example?" Leslie asked, looking for an excuse to take a break.

Roarke glanced back over a couple of pages and smiled. "A few cats that came with the first settlers happened to be tailless, like the Manx breed," he said. "For some reason there were none with tails. It grew into a strange tradition that all cats on the island should be tailless, and eventually this was written into law. To this day, cats with tails are not allowed into the country."

"You're right," Leslie said. "Peculiar is the word." They laughed and returned to their research, and silence fell for some time.

Now, just short of eleven o'clock, Roarke suddenly said, "Aha…" and Leslie looked up. "Perhaps this will be significant. According to this anecdote, you are not the first woman in Arcolosian history to successfully refuse the hand of its monarch. In the eighteenth century, King Paolono the Third proposed to the daughter of the monarch of a tiny Scandinavian island country some distance southeast of the Shetland Islands, called Lilla Jordsö by the Swedes who settled it."

"Little Earth Island," Leslie translated and grinned. "I've heard of it. In fact, I remember _mormor_ telling me she visited that place once as a little girl."

"Indeed," said Roarke and smiled. "At any rate, the king arrived on the island announcing his intent to marry Princess Kristina of Lilla Jordsö. But he had made his plans without doing much research into the matter. It turned out that the princess was her father's only child; were she to be taken away to become queen of Arcolos, there would be no one to succeed King Johan when he passed on."

Leslie thought that over. "Very interesting," she said softly. "Sounds like a very progressive country for the times, too—putting the princess in line to inherit the throne. In the other Scandinavian countries, succession was always through the male line. So I admit to being impressed."

Roarke didn't reply; his dark eyes had gone unfocused, and he was staring into space. Leslie looked up when the silence stretched and started to speak, but something in his expression stopped her. She waited, wondering, until at last he murmured, "That may be the answer we are seeking."

"I don't understand," Leslie ventured questioningly.

Roarke came back to the here-and-now and said, "I believe we may be onto something here." He set aside the book he had been reading and picked up a thick tome with an aging leather binding; opening this, he checked the contents page and then thumbed carefully through the book till he found what he wanted. Leslie craned her neck and tipped her head almost to one shoulder, trying to read the title on the cover. At last she had to resort to asking Roarke what he was reading.

"Ah, I apologize," he said, glancing up with a quick smile. "This is a bound copy of the constitution of Arcolos. One moment, child, I am acting on a hunch." She brightened with hope at that and set aside her own book, leaning forward and resting her folded arms on the desk, watching avidly and occasionally reading passages upside down.

She had just finished hiding a yawn behind one hand when Roarke nodded. "There is precedent for it," he said. "Stated here, in the very constitution itself, is this passage. 'The monarch of Arcolos may not take to husband or wife the only surviving child of the ruler of another country.' Should that happen, there would be no one of the ruler's line remaining to take the throne, and it would be necessary to undergo tremendous effort toward choosing a successor. Thus Princess Kristina could turn down King Paolono because she was the only surviving child of King Johan."

"Nice of them to have consideration for someone else," Leslie said with some sarcasm.

Roarke chuckled. "I suspect the Arcolosians themselves probably had the experience and felt it wise to add this provision to their constitution. At any rate, Leslie, we may be able to use it in your case."

She sat back and stared at him in perplexity; then, as she processed the idea, her eyes grew wide. "What you're saying, then, is that because I'm your only child, and the sole inheritor of Fantasy Island—which is sovereign in and of itself—Prince Errico might be forbidden to marry me?"

"Exactly," said Roarke, nodding approval.

"There's just one little problem," she pointed out. "You're not King Roarke and I'm not Princess Leslie. Since we aren't royalty, would that law still apply to us?"

"You have a point," Roarke said, considering this, "but it might not present as much of an obstacle as it would seem. The law does not state _monarch_ as such—it merely says _ruler_. Though we may be stretching the definition slightly, the fact remains that I am owner, lord mayor, and highest authority on the island. That, in effect, would make me the 'ruler' of Fantasy Island: and, as my only surviving child, you would be forbidden to the prince and he would be forced to look elsewhere."

She clasped her hands together, interlacing her fingers, and tucked them under her chin, her eyes bright with hope. "Oh, please, let this work," she breathed.

"We'll find out in the morning," Roarke told her. "I'll send for the prince, and we will present the situation to him. As a member of the royal family, he should be more familiar than most Arcolosians with the laws of his country; so his reaction will tell us all we need to know. Now why don't you go and get some sleep, and we'll face this again tomorrow." 


	7. Chapter 7

§ § § -- August 9, 1991

The first order of business on Friday morning was to meet the plane that was bringing Michiko Tokita home. Word had spread rapidly, so that by the time Roarke and Leslie arrived at the plane dock, there was already quite the entourage waiting for her. Michiko's father, the sheriff of Amberville who would be retiring in another year, and mother were there, along with three of her four siblings. One of those siblings was her brother Toki, who was with Myeko; and naturally, Camille and her son, Lauren and her parents, brother and sister, and Maureen were waiting as well. Recently Michiko had begun at last to see her efforts bear fruit; with the help of a distant relative in Los Angeles who had been acting as her agent, she had finally caught the attention of a recording company and had just released an album. It hadn't been selling well until just a month before, when she'd appeared on the _Tonight_ show and sung two of the songs from it. Now it was flying off the shelves, and she had sliced out some time to go back home and visit friends and family before taking off on a whirlwind of promotional appearances and record signings.

Everyone watched now as the pontoon charter hove into view, banking and circling for its landing just outside the mouth of the lagoon. For a few minutes it dropped out of view, then reappeared, taxiing across the water around the bend in the comma-shaped lagoon and finally drifting to a halt at the dock, where attendants rapidly secured it.

Michiko was first off the plane, along with a group of vacationers who had recognized her and were still collecting autographs. Not till they had dispersed did she have a chance to look around and light up with delight at sight of the small crowd awaiting her.

"What a beautiful way to come home!" she exclaimed happily.

They all cheered; behind her, Leslie heard Roarke chuckle to himself. Michiko ran for them and bestowed heartfelt hugs on one person after another; she looked astonished when she saw Roarke among her welcoming committee. "Am I really that important?" she asked jokingly, and they all laughed.

"Hometown girl makes good," Myeko quipped to her sister-in-law.

"I guess so, but I didn't think I'd made quite _that_ good," Michiko said, then turned to Leslie and hugged her. "You look wonderful! Listen…" She lowered her voice. "I need to come and see you and Mr. Roarke later today. I'm not here just for some time off."

"Oh," said Leslie. "Well, in that case, come after lunch. We have some business to take care of this morning, but the afternoon's mostly open."

Michiko nodded and moved on to the other girls, but her words stayed in Leslie's mind as she and Roarke headed back for the main house. Roarke, of course, had overheard Michiko's words to Leslie. "Michiko is to sing on Sunday," he said cryptically.

"Where?" Leslie asked.

About to tell her, Roarke caught himself, pausing as he parked the car next to the fountain and killed the engine. Standing on the main house veranda was Prince Errico, looking very impatient indeed, frequently and ostentatiously checking his watch. "Later, Leslie. It appears the 'business' you mentioned to Michiko has suddenly become urgent." He gestured at the subject of his dry observation, and Leslie sighed.

"Well," she murmured, "I guess this is the test." She caught Roarke's arm as he started to get out of the car. "What if it doesn't work? Will I have to marry him?"

"Leslie, he can do nothing if you don't consent," Roarke told her firmly. "Divine Right of Kings notwithstanding, he must realize that he can't force you to do his bidding. Perhaps he will be motivated to think about changing that law."

"I wouldn't count on it," Leslie said darkly. "He has as much arrogance as any of his forebears, and I doubt he'd be interested in giving up any power."

"We'll see," Roarke said. "Come, now, our guest is quite impatient, as you can see."

Roarke greeted the prince warmly as he and Leslie came up the walk to the steps; Errico shot them an exasperated look. "I've been waiting here for ten minutes," he complained. "What was such urgent business that it took precedence over my fantasy?"

Longing to tell him off, Leslie refrained from speaking only with supreme effort, along with a warning glance from Roarke. "We had an appointment," said Roarke. "I apologize for your wait. Please come in and make yourself comfortable." Even as he spoke he was on the way to the door, which he opened for Errico to precede him and Leslie inside.

"Appointment," sniffed Errico. "I am nearly out of time, and I want to make the formal announcement today so that the preparations can begin."

"Preparations for what?" Leslie asked, speaking to Roarke.

"Prince Errico's formal engagement ball," Roarke said. "It is to be held on Sunday, to celebrate his choice of a wife." He turned to the prince and observed, "However, there may be complications."

Errico eyed Roarke with outrage. "You promised me it would all be taken care of."

"I have done my part," Roarke retorted coolly. "But in making your choice of wife, you may have set yourself behind your own schedule."

"I would appreciate an explanation, if you please," Errico demanded. "Leslie, you will sit here beside me."

"Leslie will sit or stand, as she chooses," Roarke corrected him. "The complications in question have to do with her." He settled himself behind the desk and regarded Errico with curiosity. "Tell me, Your Highness, are you fully familiar with the constitution of your country?" Errico stared at him blankly, and he smiled. "If not, I have an unabridged copy of which you might like to make use." Roarke picked up the leather-bound volume and offered it to the prince, who eyed it warily before slowly reaching up and accepting it.

"This book is the entire Arcolosian constitution?" he asked skeptically.

Roarke nodded. "As you can see, it's quite lengthy, so you can certainly be forgiven for not having it memorized. But you might be particularly interested in the twenty-seventh article, page 320, subheading five."

Errico stared at Roarke without comprehension, a wary look creeping over his dark Mediterranean features before he finally opened the book and found the page Roarke had mentioned. He ran a finger down the indicated page and stopped a little more than halfway, reading the subheading several times. Finally he looked up. "And how is this relevant to me?" he asked testily.

Roarke relaxed in his chair. "You are aware of my position here, are you not?" he asked conversationally. Errico's expression went blank again.

"You are the proprietor of a world-class resort," he said. "All the world knows that. I do wish you would cease beating about the proverbial bush, Mr. Roarke, and simply come to whatever point you intend to make."

"Very well," Roarke said. "I am far more than the mere proprietor of Fantasy Island. I am owner and island lord mayor—in short, the absolute ruling authority here. And, since Fantasy Island is a sovereign, self-governing territory, under the jurisdiction of no other country, that places me on a par with a president—or a king."

"Congratulations, Mr. Roarke," drawled Errico sardonically.

Roarke sat up and leaned over the desk then, pinning the prince with a sharp, intense stare. "The point you requested, Your Highness, is this: Leslie is my daughter. She is the sole inheritor of my island, and she is my only surviving child. Therefore, according to the law of your own country, you are forbidden to wed her. After all, if she leaves, who is to continue operating Fantasy Island if something should happen to me?"

Silence fell, and Roarke and Leslie both watched Errico closely while Roarke's words sank in. The prince scowled, referred to the book that lay open in his lap, looked at Leslie who took enormous care to maintain her poker face, looked at the book again, and then at Roarke once more. "You're bluffing," he finally said.

"Ask anyone on the island," Leslie said in a calculatedly neutral tone. "Even the police force will tell you that Mr. Roarke has the final legal word on anything and everything."

When Errico slumped back in his chair, looking thwarted and bewildered, they knew he had finally accepted the truth. _"Diento mie,"_ he mumbled weakly in Arcolosian. "My God." He peered at Roarke with a childlike hope in his eyes. "You truly have no other children?"

"No, Leslie is the only one," Roarke said. "I'm sorry, Your Highness."

Errico sighed, long, loud and deep, and let his head fall back with what appeared to be great weariness, staring at the ceiling. Leslie and Roarke glanced at each other; her eyes sparkled with relieved triumph, and he simply smiled.

"What about my fantasy?" Errico asked helplessly, lowering his head and staring at Roarke as if thoroughly lost. "I have no affianced wife, and the engagement ball is to be held in only two days. You must help me, my dear sir!"

* * *

_So what's going to happen to Prince Errico's fantasy—and what does Michiko need to talk to Leslie and Roarke about? Never fear…it will all be resolved in the continuation!_


End file.
